Aftermath
by statira
Summary: Hermione puts all her energy into looking out for the newly returned Sirius. Snippets of the weeks following the return of Sirius from The Veil. -Post DH-
1. Feb 2001

**Title:** **Aftermath**

**Characters: **Hermione/Sirius.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or anything related to it.

**Summary: "**_He watches solemnly as the dark, angry sea crashes repeatedly against the pier. The continuing onslaught knocks the small fishing boats carelessly about on its slate coloured surface. He is going to leave, tonight. He has decided." _Sirius returned, the war may have ended but its after affects were still perceptible.

**A/N: **Edited, to change structure.

* * *

**Aftermath**

* * *

_**February 2001**_

_The ancient, azure paint chips beneath his neat fingernails as his dry, calloused hands tightly encircle the corrugated iron railing. The air, drenched with the mist of crashing waves, seeps into his skin. The residue of salt flavours his cracked lips. He watches solemnly as the dark, angry sea crashes repeatedly against the pier. The continuing onslaught knocks the small fishing boats carelessly about on its slate coloured surface. He is going to leave, tonight. He has decided._

"_I got you an ice-cream." Her small voice is almost carried away on the harsh wind. "I realise it's not the ideal weather, but when at the beach!" She laughs weakly._

_He takes the proffered cone, but barely touches it. Sirius knows it is time to go. Just like he knows, he was never meant to come back._

"_You're going to leave, aren't you?"_

_His head turns sharply in her direction. A hazy, grey light struggles to shine from the clouds above her as the harsh wind whips stray, strands of chestnut hair about her wind lashed cheeks. She is not looking at him; instead her gaze is drawn to a small boy, dressed in an over sized wax jacket, collecting shells on the beach. He finds himself mildly surprised that he has not foreseen her knowing. She knows everything! Merlin, she reminds him so much of Remus that at times it aches to be around her. _

"_An old school friend of Lily's said she'd put me up for a while. Just till I'm settled," he says._

"_So you've had this planned for a while?" she asks him trying to mask the anger from her voice. She keeps her eyes trained to the young child skipping across the damp sand. "When do you leave?"_

"_I was thinking tonight." _

"_Tonight!" her voice falters. _

_She remembers when he returned, it was a little after the monument was erected. The deaths still felt so fresh. Even to this day she pretends not to see the bitterness in Mrs. Weasley's eyes that Sirius came back, but that Fred was dead. _

* * *


	2. May 7th 2000

A/N: Proinsias McCana's book, 'Celtic Mythology' was a great help with the part about 'The Veil'.

* * *

_**Monday May 7th 2000**_

The distant, metallic twang of church bells echoed across the city, sending napping birds to flight. From beneath a thick, heavy, feather duvet Hermione could hear a male voice, below her window, butchering a popular tune with off key singing. The strong scent of burnt toast drifted into her room. There was a knock at her door.

"Go away Ron," she remembered calling. "I don't want to talk to you."

It was exactly 12:02 on the day Sirius returned. Hermione forgot why she was angry with Ron.

Her mind drew a blank on why she was now standing five days later on the topmost landing of Grimmauld Place. She knew there had been reasons, in fact some very solid arguments for why she should tell Sirius but as she crossed the creaking floorboards and rapped quietly on his door they all vanished.

She stood there praying he had not heard, her mind distracted by the sinking feeling in her stomach when his groggy voice invited her in. She couldn't steady the nervous twitch in her balmy hand as it shakily turned the porcelain knob. She could distinguish the individual clicks as the handle turned and the almost silent creek as the door opened.

Before she knew it, Hermione had shuffled into the spacious room and was noticing Sirius' elbows buckling under his weight as he strained to pull himself up onto his pillows. The exhaustion etched on his face as he lay in his old bedroom. Despite all these, the thing she could never forget was the look in Sirius' eyes when she told him of Remus. How he fell fighting Dolohov. The way his eyes darkened frightened her, it was as though his pupils had burst, bleeding into the grey. Most of all, she would remember that little spark of light extinguish into a thunderous abyss.

The duty asked of her weighed heavy on her shoulders and once more she questioned why she had to see the heart shattering pain etch across his lined face. She reached out and tentatively placed her hand on his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She could not help but wonder how often this phrase was used. Did it always sound this empty?

"He got married though, to Tonks," she continued, struggling with the words. Not entirely sure if she was being kind but suspecting the latter news may have caused more pain.

"Who else?" his voice was quiet, she had never heard him so; it was almost inaudible. She was on the verge of asking him to repeat himself.

"I don't think now's the time." She was not sure how much more she could physically stomach. The grief was claustrophobic. She couldn't deal, she wasn't aware of the proper protocol.

"Tell me." His voice was marginally stronger, but his hooded eyes were adverted from her, staring at the photograph on the wall. The one of four joyful, laughing Hogwart's students.

"Look maybe…" Hermione gasped, jumping in surprise at the touch of his icy, skeletal fingers gripping her wrist. There was not enough strength to cause any great discomfort.

"Tell me, Hermione," Sirius pleaded.

She turned her gaze to the picture of the smiling, waving group of friends. They were younger than she was in that picture. She found it hard to imagine the man in the room with her had ever been so young. "Ok, ok…

"Amelia Bones, Vance, Moody, Tonks." She coughed to clear the lump in her throat. "Fred, Dumbledore…"

"Enough Hermione," he said abruptly, pulling lightly on her arm so she would look at him. Every word drenched in regret, his eyes closed. "Enough."

The lines in his face were more pronounced than previous. She hated to see him this way. However much she had disapproved of his actions, Sirius had always strived to appear strong. The Veil had seemed to do what Azkaban and his family had failed to. It had reduced him to a shell of his former self. She hoped, for his sake, this was just exhaustion that maybe he could find the energy to fight, just once more. This was not Sirius, not how she liked to remember him. He looked as ancient as the dust that thickly covered his room.

"The Veil?" he said suddenly, as though it had been playing on his mind. "What is it?"

She watched him closely not entirely sure what she was looking for. "Many Unspeakables believe it is a gateway to the Afterlife, and most of the literature would support this theory. There are of course other hypotheses; some think its purpose to be more sinister…" She paused aware that in Sirius' circumstance there was probably some kind of procedure, but if she didn't keep talking the conversation would turn back to Remus. Something she knew neither wanted. He had caught her off guard and she wondered was that purposely done.

"You must understand The Veil is situated in the Department of Mysteries and therefore under the jurisdiction of the Unspeakables. And as you can guess, means only a limited amount of information is available. In saying that, most magical folk overlook Muggle literature and what I have come to understand of The Veil, is from piecing both together."

"But where did it come from?" Sirius asked, reaching for a glass of water to sooth his dry throat. He knew she meant kindly but it was too upsetting for both of them to talk about Remus, just now anyway. He also knew he could tempt her studious nature with questions about this veil.

"The find reports are not in the public record and it appears to be a much guarded secret. Where there are mentions, its location has been censored. So as you can imagine _The Secrecy's Act of 1769_, which protects the Unspeakables, is highly irritating in research." She explained. "That, unfortunately, isn't the only hitch. During the period of expansion in the 19th century, when countries in Muggle Europe were colonising, our own Ministry took advantage of the delicate state of politics. They have in their possession many magical artefacts from the time, which have caused a lot of grief for the Ministry today. Many foreign Ministries are demanding their immediate return."

"So…" Sirius asked curiously, pulling himself up straighter. "You have no idea where it came from?"

Hermione sat at the bottom of his bed, crossing her legs. "It makes it difficult as I have no context from which to work, which also makes it hard to understand the function. If you like I can tell you my own views on the subject?"

"Sure," he replied handing her one of his pillows, which she promptly placed behind her back.

"Ok, well, the earliest mention of an afterlife in Muggle literature is in Homer's Odyssey. Hesiod, too, has made references to an Underworld. The thing is," she began, waving her right hand. "If The Veil is to be seen as a passageway, then we have to consider the myths too. Taking a journey to the Otherworld or Underworld is a very common theme in world mythology. Herakles, Orpheus, Cú Chulainn and Arthur are just some amongst many, who travelled to the Land of the Dead. The Roman poet Virgil went into great detail when his hero Aeneas entered the Underworld at Cumae. So I guess, on this basis, The Veil could have originated in Greece, Italy even Egypt or the Near East, but my most recent bit of evidence makes me wonder if its origins lie somewhere on the British Isles… your return."

"My return?!" Sirius said his voice drenched in surprise, his finger pointed to his chest.

"Yes, May 2nd. It is one of the four major festivals on the Celtic calendar and one of two, when it is thought the barriers between the two worlds are at their weakest. Samhain and Beltaine are liminal periods of the calendar and while many scholars only associate Samhain, and particularly the eve of, with such events. It is just as likely to occur around Beltaine which falls on the first of May." She paused to catch her breath. "Do you remember anything?"

"No, I mean, everything is fuzzy and there's so much to take in. I just… I don't remember," he said running a frustrated hand through his hair. "What do _you_ think it is like there?"

"What it is exactly, I can't say. I imagine it transcends mortal time and that it would defy all our laws of space. 7th century insular poets speak of lands that can be reached through water, caves or a magical mist. Where in lies a 'Land of the Living' or _'Tír inna mBeo'_. Where there is no sickness and where love is not tainted by guilt." Her chocolate coloured eyes took on a far away look as she focused above his head. "Some of the poets also mention a 'Land of Women', _'Tír inna mBan'_. This place is filled with self filling cups and an endless supply of food, where instruments play by themselves and exotic birds live; where the women are young, beautiful and plentiful" She looked him directly in the eyes and smirked conscious of all the posters of women decorating the walls. "Obviously those poems were written by men!"

He smiled weakly, "and the other lands?"

"I couldn't possibly go into detail on every reference; it would seem that the Otherworld is comprised of co-existing regions. Those good and those bad; dark lands, heavy with mist where the occupants are forever silent or places that are at once, both beautiful and horrific; where monstrous creatures dwell. Mostly, they are just stories Sirius, possibly devised to placate the warriors about to go to battle. If the soldiers believed there was an afterlife, why would they fear death?"

"And you? What do you think?"

"I suppose it is part of the reason the Unspeakables study The Veil, death. We can't truly understand it, much less anything else they study in the Department of Mysteries. All are dangerous, intriguing, but ultimately not understood. Death, Conscious Thought, Time, Space, Life & Love and Pre-destination, these grand enigmas, the reason there exists a Department of Mysteries. Love, death and time – it's all very Shakespearean!"

He was going to make a joke but her discomfort of the topic was evident. "You sound uneasy."

Hermione moved across the exposed wood floor towards the tall slash windows. She dared not touch the long velvet curtains for fear of causing an avalanche of dust. There was a decent view into the private park from here. She wondered what it must have been like for Sirius as a child; would his parents have allowed him into the park shared by the Georgian Houses? Did they even own a key? She watched silently as a flock of crows disappeared over the trees of the walled garden.

"I needed to understand Sirius, especially after I heard you fell through." She noticed his expression. "I was unconscious at the time, I was lucky that night. Dolohov should have killed me, but thankfully _that_ spell wasn't as affective under a silencing charm. Now though, I wonder, are we meant to understand?"

"What'd you mean?"

Hermione reached for the jug of water, "May I?"

He nodded handing her a clean, if slightly dusty glass.

"There's a power in The Veil, it draws the lost; the misfits; the susceptible. The power it emits is intoxicating. It entrances the mind and subconsciously draws you closer. I saw how it affected Harry and Luna, even Neville and Ginny. It has these innocent looking curtains, weaved of the deepest black that they almost epitomise the loneliness of The Veil, the nothingness… and yet, from some angles the shine is so brilliant as to make them almost transparent, inviting to the touch. It stands alone, in a room that resembles a court.

"Sirius, it _whispers._ It's dangerous." She sighed, her eyes drawn to the wax encrusted chandler. "There are rumours of Unspeakables that became obsessed, that disappeared… and I have no doubt that the draw became too great for them. I hate it." Hermione spat with such finality.

A heavy silence descended upon them that was only broken when Sirius spoke his voice croaking slightly. "Where do you think I was?"

"Probably The Land of Women," she remarked dryly, getting the ghost of a smile from Sirius. Her voice took on a softer tone as she retook her seat on the bed. "Wherever you were, you were with James and Remus."

"What makes you say that?"

"Faith, Sirius. I have to believe that it's true, that when we pass there is a 'Land of the Living' or something similar. Where there is no disease or pestilence, that everyone is young and happy. That we each get our own personal version of Valhalla, Remus is surrounded by his books and the wolf is gone. Fred is running riot, maybe even pranking with James. That a life exists _in _death. That when we die we go somewhere. I need to believe the literature, even if they are just stories and myths because otherwise, what was the point?" She asked, ringing the corner of Sirius' duvet between thin fingers, tears welling in her hazel eyes.

"They had a son," she added abruptly.

"Remus?"

She nodded weakly not able to catch his eye. "Teddy. He lives with Andromeda. He doesn't much like crowds and is very quiet. Though I'm sure he'll grow out of that. He is a Metamorphmagus"

"Is he…" Sirius stuttered. "…is…is he a…"

"No," Hermione replied. "He didn't inherit the Lycanthropy."

"Remus would be grateful," he said bitterly.

"Harry is his godfather," she continued. "He is a much loved child. He doesn't want for anything," Hermione winced at her choice of words.

"Besides the obvious," she whispered, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket. She took the picture out that she had brought especially for Sirius.

"He looks so like him Sirius," she said handing him the photograph. "There is such a strong resemblance that if Teddy couldn't morph, I'd wonder was he hers at all. He is Remus through and through. You can see him if you like."

"I'd like that but right now I want to be alone."

"Look if… If you need anything, just call." She stood and straightened her skirt. "Oh! I almost forgot I got an owl; we're to take you to St. Mungo's tomorrow."

She paused at the door, obviously something playing on her mind. She turned. "They are happy Sirius, happy and reunited. You'll see them all again."

* * *


	3. June 10th 2000

* * *

_**Saturday June 10th 2000**_

She couldn't understand why Sirius chose to live in this place. The apartment was small, dark and had a distinctively used feeling, the windows shook with every articulated bus that passed. Added with the smell of damp cats and old boots it did not make for a particularly pleasant place to live.

"Sirius?" Hermione announced apprehensively, pushing open the door to the sitting room and grimaced as the acrid smell, similar to petrol, assaulted her senses. He'd been drinking again. The loud crash of tin caused her to freeze temporarily. She looked down to where her offending foot had become encased in an empty beer can, one of many littering the floor but the sound seemed to go unnoticed by the slumbering male.

The dark haired man was passed out on his beige, second hand sofa. His arm hung loosely over the edge and his face was nestled in a cushion, occasionally making the snorting sounds of the heavily intoxicated. The bottle that was once clutched in his palm was lying horizontally, dribbling whiskey into the carpet.

"What am I to do with you," she said aloud as she knelt to pick up the bottle and set it upright on the table. She looked about her, he still had not unpacked. Clearing the cans she walked to the kitchen. The food she made him yesterday still lay untouched on the plate, the sauce congealed.

"Oh! Sirius," she sighed dejectedly as she rolled up her sleeves and prepared to tackle the sink.

She knew he had taken it bad; after all Remus was his family, his best friend. Ginny had suggested once that they may have been more; she was not so sure, but whatever his preference the news of Remus had hit hard. Sirius was the impulsive type, he acted first and questioned later. He was open about his feelings towards people, if he didn't like you, you knew. She had expected him to go off on his own, to get ridiculously drunk. She just hadn't expected him to continue it for more than a month. She worried about him; she called everyday, even just for ten minutes. She worried about the amount he was drinking. Maybe she just didn't understand. She could not swear she'd be any more dignified in grief.

The tinny clank of cheap plates and the distant roar of traffic seeped into his tired mind. She was back. The pain in his head was so fierce he could feel each agonising thump, throb in his filmy teeth. His throat was barren and a layer of gunk covered his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as his aching body would allow in the vain hope it would ease his suffering. There was no need to open his eyes to know where he'd slept. The stale smell of cigarettes and spilt beer told him enough. He rolled over stifling a moan, and counted to thirty before opening his eyes. A blinding white light streamed in the narrow window and stung his retinas, still accustomed to the dark.

"Stupid cow," he grumbled to himself, "opened the curtains."

He rolled into the back of the sofa avoiding the morning sunlight, wincing as another agonising pain swept through his brain.

"Ah! Good. You're awake." The kindly but firm voice of Hermione said.

He groaned into the back of the sofa and weakly waved her away.

"Sit up and drink this, it'll help you with any aches. The potency should be strong enough to deal with your hangover," she said handing Sirius a phial. "I'll just go make you some coffee."

Sirius wasn't sure; his eyes must not have focused properly. Hermione seemed different somehow. He shrugged it off and knocked back her remedy, he felt a cool sensation taking over his body. It seemed to travel from his toes and spread out with a tickling sensation. It eased away his aching head like the break of a wave. The serenity factor of the potion made him feel fantastically calm, as he stretched back on his cushion.

"Merlin blesses your potion making skills," he commented when she returned.  
He smirked at the pinkish hue on her cheeks as she placed the steaming cup of black coffee on a magazine, to prevent the liquid from staining the already water marked table. A warm feeling swept through him as he realised she'd made his coffee exactly how he liked it.

Hermione nudged at his socked feet and sat at the edge of the sofa.

"So, how are you feeling today?" she asked her voice concerned.

"Better, thanks to your genius."

She smiled warmly. "I've got the day off today, thought maybe you felt like coming to town with me?" she said, picking lint from his trousers. "I've to pick up something for my mum."

It struck him now why Hermione looked different. The last times he'd seen her she had come from work. Her formal uniform and tightly pulled back hair always made her look old and stern. Sitting now, in her jeans and tight jumper her hair was loose, wild and untamed around her face, how he liked it. She looked relaxed.

"Your hangover potion may have done the trick Hermione, but I don't really feel up to leaving the flat."

"Well I'm doing a clothes wash later, if you have anything? I already took your bed sheets."

"Hermione!" he said embarrassed. "You don't have to."

"I know," she interrupted, "but I want to."

"Thanks," he said unable to catch her eyes.

"Now," she continued, standing up and straightening her jumper. "There's a sandwich in the fridge if you get hungry." She crinkled her nose up jokingly. "And you might want to have a shower. I'll be back later."

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the distinct burning of fresh cigarette smoke. At least he'd left the flat, she reasoned as all the packets she had cleared earlier had been empty.

He wasn't in the room; the excited voice of a commentator shouted from the wireless in the corner as one of the Holyhead Harpies' chasers narrowly missed a Bludger from The Montrose Magpies. The flush of a toilet made Hermione turn, Sirius came in zipping up his trousers, with a slight swagger to his step. Her eyes immediately went to the bottle she'd picked up earlier. It was empty.

The sigh must have caught his attention, "Oh! You're back," he said disdainfully.

"Please. Tell. Me." she began, stressing each word carefully. "That you have _not_ been drinking."

Sirius pushed roughly passed her and flopped to the sofa. "And so what if I have," he said lighting a fresh cigarette.

Hermione marched past him into the kitchen flinging the door open with such force that it swung back behind her. Her hands grabbed the stainless steel sink so tightly that white shone through her knuckles.

"Deep breathe… at least he has eaten something", she said quietly to herself, looking at the partially eaten sandwich left on the draining board.

The irate sounds from the kitchen carried out to the increasingly irritated Sirius, he jumped from the couch and went to the kitchen.

"I didn't ask you to do any of this."

"I know," she replied. "I wanted to… more fool me!"

She shoved forcibly passed him back into the sitting room and reopened the window; it was stiff and needed a good pull. The cool air washed over her, refreshing her, calming her.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Letting in some fresh air."

"Well maybe I don't want any," he retorted childishly, slapping the rusty latch sending the widow plummeting down with a loud bang. Hermione barely got her fingers away in time.

Hermione turned giving him a withering look and bent down to pick a brown mug off the shag carpet.

"Leave it."

"What?" she said in a controlled whisper.

"I said, leave it," Sirius yelled angrily.

She ignored him and placed the mug on the table.

"Did it cross your mind that maybe I like the mess?" he asked.

"If you want to live like a pig!"

"Maybe I do."

He moved close to her that they were almost touching. She could clearly see the hairs on his unshaved chin. His hand slowly reaching for the mug, her eyes following; he dramatically flicked the mug off the table.

"You're acting like an immature child," she said, unable to resist picking it up again.

"And you're an interfering bitch!"

She could feel her face going hot. "I don't have to stay and listen to this."

"That's right, go!" His voice sounded so empty.

She was flushed with rage. She could feel the small crescent shaped indentations marring her palms. "I don't deserve this," she said grabbing her bags from the couch.

"What do you want, some kind of award? Ooh! I looked after the drunk," Sirius said, in a voice so mean it was barely recognisable. He picked up an almost empty bottle and purposely took a long swig from it.

Her heart was racing erratically; the thumping was filling her ears, almost deafening her. Hermione was finding it difficult to control her rage; her hands gripped tightly the plate she'd picked up for her mother. He could make her so mad at times, but this time he'd really stuck the knife in. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her, his eyebrows raised cockily almost asking her to retaliate. She vainly fought her instincts to fight back but the way he swaggered triumphantly away towards the hall door. She couldn't let him think he'd intimidated her. She threw the plate at him. It soared through the air, almost in slow motion, barely grazing the top of his head, smashing against the wooden door frame just as he reached it. The ground at his feet was littered with the tiny cubes of blue and white china. He turned to her, and she could see the evidence of his surprise in his grey eyes, although he tried to hide it. She'd managed to get him, but at the expense of her mother's plate.

"Get out of my way." She spoke in a controlled, toneless voice before he could retaliate. She was somewhat ashamed she'd given in to the urge, but refused to let him see that.

He grabbed her roughly by the arms and pulled her into his embrace. The sharp bristles of his beard poked her lips as he pressed them against hers; the Firewhiskey hot on his breath.

She pushed away from him forcefully, "what are you doing?"

He turned from her taking a swig from the bottle he had brought with him. "You can't marry him."

"Sorry?" she said amazed, she wasn't marrying anyone.

"You can't marry the guy, not without being with someone else first. You'll only wonder."

"I'm going, Sirius. I suggest you stop drinking and get some sleep."

He looked at the bottle, the neck clutched tightly in his hand; shaking it slightly as though just realising it was empty he tossed it to the floor carelessly. Wobbling on his feet he followed her to the hallway.

"What? Afraid you might enjoy yourself?" he mocked.

She rounded on him. "You have been given another chance Sirius and you're wasting it. Have you any idea what George would do to get Fred back? And there you are, third chance, once again fucking it up. You're a train wreck." She looked him up and down disdainfully. "You make me sick."

* * *


	4. June 14th 2000

* * *

_**Wednesday June 14th 2000**_

A myriad of protective wards surrounded the monument, preventing Sirius apparating too near. His senses were initially struck by the scent of freshly cut grass almost alien to his city nose; he began the short hike to the top of the hill. The monument slowly began to appear over the bracken and tufts of long, coarse grass growing amid the rocks dotting the surrounding hill.

He was taken back by its simplicity; a neat, horse-shoe shaped, black marble monument, undulating with the curve of the rocky outcrop. As if, rock and marble were one breathing entity, delicately caressing the blue horizon. Goose bumps sprang up along his arms as he surveyed the panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. Hermione told him that on a clear day you could see into the neighbouring county. There was an air of freedom and lonely isolation hanging loosely in the mild atmosphere. Though the weather had been hot, Sirius wished he'd worn more than a light shirt. He had a feeling that this area never felt warm.

He stood momentarily before the archway which stood proudly as the entrance. His eyes raked repeatedly over the inscription as though somehow they could wear it away, take back all the decades of suffering– _IN MEMORY OF THOSE TO WHOM WE OWE OUR FREEDOM, AND TO THOSE WE GIVE THANKS. _The letters meticulously engraved in Latin.

He appreciated the time and effort that went into the painstaking job of constructing such an arch without mortar or magic. Each individual stone, donated by a family member, was inscribed with the initials of their loved one; a way to commemorate those whose lives were drastically altered by the Death Eaters. He noticed a small granite rock, the flecks of mica glinting in the evening sunlight. He ran a long finger lightly over the A and L, and immediately his thoughts went to Alice. She had been such a cheerful girl and so motherly. The longer he focused on the carvings the more he began to remember other acquaintances. The stone could signify Alan Lewellyn, a Hufflepuff chaser. He had been the bane of James on the Quidditch pitch, outshining Prongs almost every time they met. Alan had only been out of Hogwarts three months, with a promising career in Quidditch when an attack on Diagon Alley had sent him to St. Mungo's. He still resided there today.

The gentle curve of the marble structure sheltered the eternally burning tribute. The flames of which licked up the sides of a plain stone basin, casting eerie shadows which danced across the wall. It was sobering being surrounded by so many names. He saw that rotting tributes, decaying and faded flowers, had not been removed and was suddenly overpowered with an intense sense of anger. With an angry swish of his wand he banished the dead bouquets and wreaths.

Hermione had not exaggerated; everyone was there, all causalities from either the first or second war. He felt his mouth go dry as he recognised so many names. Kids he'd known from detention or Quidditch. Some from Moony's prefect group and girls he and Prongs had mercilessly harassed and chased for dates. He couldn't comprehend how so many could be there. His eyes lingered on _his_ name. How could Remus be there? How could he be gone? His last link to a happier time in his life, the only one left who could really remember Sirius before Azkaban and life had dealt its bitter blow. All of them were dead, even Snape. It was if, his entire generation had been wiped out. You could easily fill a Quidditch pitch with the amount of people represented on this wall. So many witches and wizards mourned, small stars every ten names representing the many that vanished, never to return, their fate unknown and presumed dead. Their families left to play the cruel waiting game. He knew nothing of these brothers, sisters, parents and children and they equally knew nothing of his loss.

He remembered talking to Remus about Godric's Hollow. Remus told him about the anger he had felt at the forced sadness of those who'd paid their respects. How it was awful to stand before the rubble where his friend's lives had been extinguished and hear words of thanks from strangers. It only made his hurt worse somehow, as if it was obvious they were just keeping their joy of Voldemort's downfall in check. Sirius felt something similar as his eyes landed in turn on those he had called his friends. How many people knew that James was an Animagus and that his favourite colour was blue? That what he adored most about his wife was the crooked gap in her front teeth. That Lily had refused to date James until seventh year and that she only ate the yellow Bertie Botts. That they were so much in love that they instinctively knew what the other was thinking. How many knew they had a son before October 1981? Who knew Remus was a prefect? Apart from being a werewolf and an ex-Professor of Hogwarts, did anyone know about Teddy or that he owned the best collection of contemporary jazz? That he had gone through an annoying phase, after reading Byron, of writing poetry to Lily's best friend.

Who knew that both Black brother's died because of the same house-elf, granted one was unintentional. Sirius still found it difficult to digest the news of his brother. It made him wonder, if he hadn't been so self absorbed, could he… would he have saved Regulus?

And Snape; as much as it pained him he had no choice but to accept his tragic life. Harry had cornered him recently on it.

"Snape was in love with my mother, but then you knew that. Didn't you?" Harry had said. Sirius knew Harry hadn't meant to sound so accusing, but he was right. Sirius did know. It was the main reason James and Sirius disliked him, because Lily used to prefer to talk to Severus than to James.

An uncomfortable chill rippled down his spine as his eyes lingered on his own name, exonerated and etched out with careful letters. He had never been able to cry. It was instilled in him at young age that it was a sign of weakness. Never in his life had he wished to cry more than then, when he realised he was alone in the world. That those who had meant so much to him as a young man, who had become his family. That they all had been reduced to a selection of constants and vowels etched on a black wall. His breathing became ragged**,** he needed to be outside. There had been a bench, a place for quiet reflection.

His foot collided with an object; he reached out to a small worn looking doll. The body was soft and slightly muddy, the face was porcelain. It was an old looking doll, an heirloom. The paint on the face was cracked, the eyes looked in opposite directions and repair work was visible where the right arm had been sowed back on, many years previously. It was easy to see that the doll was once well loved. It looked lost, lying slumped in the middle of a tuft of grass. He noticed a small note pinned to its dirty pinafore.

_My darling daughter, may you lie in the arms of angels._

_Dad x _

He turned back to the monument, his eyes scouring the black stone for a name, a young girl.

Kitty Wallace 1992-1998

Wallace wasn't a Wizarding name, with a sinking gut feeling he realised that the father was a Muggle-born. Sirius carefully placed the doll against the wall, beneath the column of names containing hers. With tears glistening in his aged eyes, Sirius turned to leave. The doll no longer supported slide down the monument, its damaged head toppling off. There it lay, discarded and decapitated on the dewy grass.

* * *


	5. June 26th 2000

* * *

_**Monday June 26th 2000**_

Her voice echoed annoyingly in his ears for days, it had come as quite a shock when he realised that he actually missed her interfering. He had politely refused Harry's invitation to move back into Grimmauld Place. He hadn't spent a great deal of time looking for a place, if it had a door that locked, a bed and was not his childhood home, it was good enough for him.

He associated a feeling of being trapped with his family home, it was a prison and no amount of paint was ever going to change that. For the person, he was, it was torture, and at least in Azkaban he understood the boundaries. During the last time he was there, Harry's fifth year, he empathised with Tantalus, his freedom hanging so tantalisingly close he could almost taste its exhaust fumed air.

Days he had spent in lonely isolation, longingly gazing out the window, wishing he could feel the rain pound against his skin. That momentary sting as the heavy globules glanced of his upturned face. The crisp wind flowing over his skin, knotting and twisting in his hair. The scents of burning wood and coals carried along a late autumn breeze, so cold that as he inhaled the scent it gripped his lungs. To be surrounded by the chatter and buzz of people he didn't know, mingled with the faint scents of perfume, cigarettes and beer. Strangers; how he had dreamt of them.

None of this mattered anymore, he had his freedom but habits choose confinement. In hindsight he wondered if taking the first flat he saw was such a wise decision.

The wood-chipped walls had been painted many years previous. The colour, he was sure could never have been fashionable. Its current dull façade was brought about by years of neglect and dust. The indecisive colour was driving his sobered mind demented. Ever since he curbed his drinking he had become more aware of his surroundings – how the cigarettes did not mask the smell of cats or that coincidently the damp patch under the widow roughly resembled a feline.

A sharp female scream carried through the thin wall of his flat. It caused Sirius' left hand to jerk colliding with the house of cards. He watched morosely as the structure toppled swiftly with no regard for his careful work. It was difficult to build a stable structure with the charred and uneven cards of an Exploding Snap deck. He stood, putting out the remains as he did so. Sirius patted down his jeans searching for his Banshee Brand Tobacco, but he was out.

"Typical," he mumbled to himself.

From the corner of his eye he spotted a carton lying beside the old, overstuffed armchair. Vaulting over an unpacked cardboard box he snatched the carton from the shag carpet. It was empty. He angrily tossed the box at the wall, cursing his vocal neighbour. He grabbed his keys and the pink umbrella and went to the corner shop.

* * *

It was raining, but not the heavy rain that smacks her roughly in the face or the type that frizzes her hair, beading the long strands. It was the kind, which fell so fast the wind was irrelevant, straight torrents that soaked her to the bone. Only she did not notice due to the wonderful warm combination of giddiness and alcohol.

She knocked on his door a second time, if he didn't answer now she would lose her bottle.

"Hermione?" she heard him say. He sounded genuinely surprised to see her.

She was drenched. Her long hair weighed down around her face. Her clothing clung to the contours of her body and her sleeves hung heavy with moisture over her hands. Pools of water were gathering at her feet on the rubber welcome mat. He noticed her eyes dancing mischievously and she was grinning like she had just realised something.

"Nice umbrella," she said.

Sirius tried to hide the dripping umbrella as he opened the door. "I found it under my bed."

"You were right," Hermione said out of nowhere, wiping the rain water dripping from her nose away with the back of her hand.

"I usually am," he joked removing his jacket. "But what am I right about now?"

Hermione gently placed her small hand on his shoulder. Sirius slowly turned to face her. She reached up on her toes brushing her wet lips against his.

"About Ron," she whispered her face still close to his. "You were right."

He stood momentarily in shock as her actions sunk in before pulling her across the threshold and slamming her forcefully against the wall. Their lips crashed together hungrily. His foot caught the heavy door and encouraged it closed. The loud bang echoed throughout the hallway. Her drenched clothing seeped through his light black t-shirt and he could taste the cherry wine on her lips. Sirius pushed away slightly, noticing the glimmer in her eyes.

"We can't do this," he said walking away. He left her leaning against the hallway wall. "You're drunk."

"Just enough to know what I'm doing Sirius," she answered confidently.

He paused, but shook the thoughts from his head. "No Hermione."

She gave him a withering look. "You're the one who kissed me! Remember?"

Sirius flinched at her tone. He wanted to kiss her; his whole body ached for it. It reminded him how long it had been since he'd had a decent shag.

"Yeah! Well I was drunk," he retorted childishly.

Hermione stood dripping in his hallway, becoming more aware of her wet clothing seeping into her. She was embarrassed but refused to let him see that. "Can you at least get me a towel?"

* * *

When she returned her hair was still damp but was loose around her face and she was wearing an oversized Wyrd Sisters t-shirt, which left her legs exposed. She sat beside him tucking her legs under her and clutching a cushion.

"Anymore words of wisdom?" she asked sarcastically.

"I didn't mean with me," he lied. At the time he had meant it. At the time he would have said anything for a bit of skirt. But now, his eyes catching an exposed part of her milky thigh he allowed himself remember what it was like with someone who'd proved they cared about you and not some random woman. He shook his head and reminded himself that this was Hermione. It just wasn't going to happen.

"I didn't expect you to say you loved me." Her regretful voice broke through his thoughts. "I maybe young, but I'm not naïve."

He ignored her hurt tone and offered her a coffee, which she accepted.

"Why can't it just be what it is, an experiment. Just sex." She called after him.

It just was not going to happen. There were too many reasons why it was wrong. The main one being, he could not jeopardise his relationship with Harry. Besides, Hermione was with Ron.

"I'll help you with this, if you like," Hermione said accepting the warm mug from Sirius, and critically looking at the unpacked boxes that were piled about the room, one or two haphazardly against the wall. She knew there were old Prophets and unframed photographs on the bookshelf. He really needed to clean up.

"I'm not sure if I'll be staying here much longer."

"Really?" Hermione could not conceal her delight at this. She hated the apartment.

"The rent is too much and I'm too far from Harry," he said not really looking at her.

'Harry,' she thought to herself, wondering if Sirius had deliberately mentioned his name.

"Sorry…" Hermione said, placing the hot cup on the table and intertwined her fingers nervously. "It's just…"

Sirius looked at her; she was lightly biting her bottom lip.

"I feel almost ready to give up on him," she mumbled. She leaned her head on his shoulder. Blinking a tear trickled down her cheek.

"On Harry?!"

"No," she said. "On Ron, does he ever talk about me?"

Sirius didn't reply it was all the answer she needed. Pulling herself together she sat up straight again reached for her caramel coloured drink.

Sirius grinned solemnly. "I hadn't realised things had gotten so bad."

"This has been a year in the making. Maybe it's for the best though. We need a break."

"I'm sorry," said Sirius, truly meaning it.

"It's hardly your fault Sirius. Everything has been so hard lately. Ron works late helping George and we hardly see each other. Then, when we do we're both so tired that we just snap. We're at each other's throats all the time. I also noticed that a new girl is helping out. Now, I know he wouldn't do anything but I just… you're words have been swimming around in my head for days. I told him."

"You told him!" Sirius uttered with surprise, wondering if he should increase the wards on his flat.

"No, I didn't tell him that! He'd be around here in a flash yelling and screaming." She looked at her hands. "We both need a break. I thought all I wanted was Ron and to be stable and secure and I'm sure I will again… but I'm young and the relationship, it's… we missed out on that spark at the beginning. With good reason, but we know so much about one another that when we started dating it was like we'd been married for years." She looked to Sirius as though suspecting he held the answer. "I never got to find out all those little details – how he likes his steak or takes his eggs, because I've known for years."

"Hermione it's ok to have doubts. James had, the night before he married Lily, awful doubts, about their ages and experience. I trust you won't tell Harry, but he almost didn't go through with it."

Hermione frowned, her head tilted back, and she looked into space momentarily. "Of course."

"Hermione I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said, what I did." Sirius apologised.

She smiled morosely, shaking her head. "You don't get it Sirius, you did me a favour."

"I just don't want you to regret it as James would have. We all get doubts."

"The thing is…" she began, gazing at him earnestly. "You're right. I am only going to wonder."

"You and Ron you have something -"

"And I want something else Sirius, I need some passion, spark… anything." She interrupted.

She felt relief at saying the words, a sudden feeling of normalcy. It was hard keeping up the charade.

"Scrambled," he murmured.

Hermione did not know how long she had stared at her hands, but she looked up when she heard him. "What?"

"It's how I like my eggs," he replied.

He leaned towards her as she slipped down the sofa. His hands placed either side of her head. Her tongue darted out and licked her lower lip in anticipation. He was so close she could feel his warm breath tickling her moistened lips.

"I though you didn't want to do this," she said breathlessly.

"I changed my mind."

* * *


	6. Feb 2001 continued

**February 2001 **

"_Don't be so fucking selfish!"_

_He is taken back momentarily by her harsh words, his ice-cream slips through his slack fingers. "Sorry?!" he attempts to sound confronting but only manages to appear guilty._

"_You know perfectly well what I mean. You can't just leave, not without saying goodbye." Hermione pauses no longer able to look at him. "Not again." _

_Of course she is right._

"_When you've settled you'd better contact him." He looks at her as though seeing her for the first time and is instantly transported to the night he first met her. She was just as surprising then too. _

"_I'll drive you to the station. I imagine you aren't going to apparate_ or _Floo in case he tracks you?" _

_Right again, he thinks. She would make a great_ _Auror, she is wasting her talents. "Yes." _

_They both stare out at the angry sea, the waves breaking on a black rock, in reflective silence. The only sound the occasional call of the seagulls above. _

* * *

_She drives him to the station the next day; the weather in no way reflects what she is feeling, as she watches him leave her life. As if he had never been. She would never equate what she shared with Ron with what she had with Sirius. With the latter it was just about sex, much needed comfort. It occurs to her as her hand hovers over the key dangling from the ignition that this is one of those moments in life; when everything can change. Could she just leave? Beg him to take her away and start afresh. She flirts with the idea, all anyone would find of her would be an abandoned maroon Toyota, driver's seat open; novelty dice swaying in the breeze. Her sense soon belittles the idea as a loud honk of a horn bursts her reverie. Hermione quietly curses under her breath as she slips the car into first and drives away. She wonders if he will keep his promise, she suspects it's just an empty one. Still, she hopes. Maybe someday they will meet again._

* * *

_He hears Hermione got back with Ron. The following year Harry tells him they were getting married. They belong together, isn't that what everyone says? Momentarily he fells shame at how he treated Snape. After all is he not in the same position? He had never meant to fall for her, not that way. He knows it was partially the lure of the forbidden, what he could never have. He truly believes she will be better off with Ron and his family; they can give her the stability and security she deserves. He is happy for Hermione. He was always too damaged for her. _

* * *


End file.
